


Candlemas

by smb (Overnighter)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Smarm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:23:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/smb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly tough case, Jim helps Blair to cleanse their apartment, and his spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candlemas

The elevator was out again. 

It was the third time this month, and while normally Jim took this as a challenge to take the steps at double time, this morning it just seemed like a slap in the face.

He was weary. There was no other word for it. The Dryson stakeout had dragged on, days longer than it should have, and he had thought they would never find the hard evidence they needed to link Cascade's best-known defense attorney with the hit that his most famous client had ordered from his cell at Starkville.

It had to be the lawyer, he and Sandburg had both agreed, and Simon couldn't find any reason to dispute it. Antonio "Slim Tony" Giambini was currently awaiting trial on first-degree murder charges, for the third time. And for the third time, the only eyewitness that could tie him to the scene was dead, this time with two bullets in the back of the head.

When the eyewitness at the first trial, who had seen Slim Tony plunge a knife into another man's chest as he was walking his dog late one night, had dropped dead of a heart attack days before the trial was about to begin, no one had thought twice about it. He was an old man, and he'd died alone in bed.

It had been disappointing - maddening really - but Beverly Sanchez and the other ADAs has simply chalked up the loss to bad luck. Giambini had to be set free, though the Cascade PD never let him too far out of sight.

The second eyewitness - this time for a murder committed by the mobster in broad daylight, albeit in the most deserted part of Cascade's rundown Harborplace neighborhood - was a homeless woman known to the local beat patrol only as Sally Mae. She'd seen Slim Tony take out a rival with Glock handgun from her cardboard home at the mouth of an alley, and had blurted out the news to the young patrolmen who'd found her hiding, hours later, between deserted ships' containers at the mouth of the harbor. She'd been dead, killed by a hit-and-run driver, less than two weeks later.

It could have been a coincidence, but there was enough suspicion surrounding the circumstances that it hadn't been hard to get a judge to agree to order Giambini held incommunicado at Starkville as he awaited yet another trial - this time for a fight with a guy over a parking space outside Gianni's, a place Jim and Sandburg had visited at least once a week since it had opened the year before. The fight had ended with the gangster backing over the other driver's head with his Lincoln Continental, the only witness his horrified wife, who was still in the car.

Held in isolation in Starkville, Giambini was allowed only one visitor - Phillip Dryson, his very well-paid lawyer. Still, they'd taken no chances, bundling the grieving widow and her two stunned young children into protective custody at a safe house in the outer suburbs. Only Major Crimes knew its location, and they'd taken turns sitting with the shattered family.

Sandburg had bonded with the children, two boys aged eight and ten, almost immediately, and had slowly begun to help them process the terrible feelings of anger and grief that threatened to overwhelm them. He'd joked with the wife - Mary Richards - about sharing a name with her television counterpart, and had listened as she told him the story of how her "white-bread" husband Paul had won the hand of Maria Francesca Santini. He'd even started stopping by on the rare days he and Jim had off, with comic books for the kids, or fresh Italian bread, little gifts to break up the monotony of life in the safe house.

So when Jim had gotten the call at the office that Mary Richards had been shot dead on her way into court to give her deposition, that the two officers escorting her had been knocked down by a brown SUV with a missing license plate and then run over, that Henri Brown had taken a bullet in the shoulder trying to protect her, and that Brian Rafe had sprained an ankle falling from the curb while sprinting after the speeding car, his first, selfish thought had been "Oh God, Sandburg's going to have to tell the kids."

And Sandburg had, too, gently and without flinching. He'd known something was wrong when he saw Jim duck into the back of his intro course on "People, Land and Food" twenty minutes before the end. Jim generally waited out in the hall until class ended for all but the most serious emergencies. He'd known it was the Richards family by the time he got a close look at Jim's face. In the end, Jim had only had to fill him in on the barest details, the stark outline of the afternoon's mayhem, and Blair had absorbed it all in silence. He'd driven over to the safe house in Jim's truck without saying a word, huddled into himself and pressed against the door.

He'd asked no questions, offered no theories, and - except for the one short, sharp exhalation of breath he'd allowed himself in the back of the Hargrove Hall auditorium - had expressed neither grief nor shock.

He'd been great with the kids, answering questions and providing as much reassurance as it was possible to give to two boys who'd had their whole lives destroyed for the second time in under a year. He'd handled all of the arrangements, contacted Mary's family, found an aunt who could take the kids immediately, sparing them even one night in the confusion of Social Services.

He'd been great, better than they could have imagined, holding himself and those around him together by sheer force of will. He helped make funeral arrangements; he visited with Henri and Rafe in the hospital, offering comfort and, where they asked for it, forgiveness. But not once - not ever - did he talk about what had happened at all.

Jim was waiting for Sandburg to fall apart. 

In Simon's office, late on the night of the shooting, he'd simply started right in on theories and possible suspects. When Jim had tried to talk about what had happened, Blair had neatly sidestepped him, arguing with Simon over the probability of getting a warrant for a wiretap of a defense lawyer's phone, and setting up a complicated schedule of twelve-hour stakeout shifts to cover Henri and Rafe's extended absences.

At Mary's funeral, he'd stood dry-eyed and solemn at the back of the church, then at the graveside. He and Jim had stayed long past the end of the service, despite the January cold, talking softly with the aunt and uncle who'd taken custody of the boys, trying to offer what little solace they could. Jim had been devastated by the depths of the boys' grief, feeling echoes of his own longing for his lost mother, and had tried to get Blair to open up about his own feelings. To his shock, he'd been met with a wall of ice-cold anger. Not directed at him, he'd realized after a few minutes, but stunning nevertheless. He'd thought until that day that Blair always burned hot - a warm personality and a fiery temper.

"Let's just get this bastard nailed to the wall," Blair had hissed furiously as he had climbed into the truck, replacing his sunglasses as he turned to stare sullenly out the front windshield. "Then maybe I'll try to _process_ this."

For three days they'd sat in the back of the surveillance van at Dryson's office, surrounded by the detritus of four men in a very close space. Blair's icy demeanor never changed, but he was solicitous of Jim and Jim's senses. He cleaned up stale coffee cups and discarded breakfast burrito wrappers as best as he could, and tried to encourage Ryan and Jablonsky on the other shift to do the same.

At home in the mornings, before he disappeared to yet another class or meeting or office hours, he cooked a simple meal - eggs or frozen waffles - and ate with Jim before dashing to the shower. By the time Jim emerged from his own ablutions, Sandburg was gone, but Jim's sleep mask and white-noise earplugs were laying atop his pillow, and his bed was turned crisply down.

As far as he could tell, Sandburg was subsisting on the short "naps" he took each night before they headed out for duty again. Yet, outwardly, he still seemed fine. He joked with Taggart and Conner over the radio, debating with them whether the office stakeout or the home stakeout sucked worse. He even encouraged Jim to take off the headphones and listen for Dryson on his own, which is why Jim had finally heard the damning phone call from Dryson to Slim Tony's brother Fat Felix long before the wiretap had picked it up.

They had to wait, of course, until Dryson's panicked voice rose loud enough for the ambient microphone to pick it up. The tap they had on his phone had proved useless - Jim had heard him dial a cell phone in his office. But, in the end, it had been fairly straightforward, even though he'd tried to run, even though Jim had had to chase the rotten son of a bitch down five flights of stairs before tackling him with an off-center lunge as he tried to dive over the railing.

Every part of him that had hit the steps was sore, but it had been worth it to see the scumbag's head bounce satisfyingly off the concrete riser. Blair, to his surprise, had not followed him down the stairs, but had stayed, hovering anxiously in the doorway of the fire exit.

"Are you okay?" he'd called down. Jim had grunted, busy placing handcuffs on his semi-conscious prisoner.

Sandburg had taken a step onto the landing and peered down through the gloom of the emergency lights. "Simon's on his way up with more backup. You should see him coming up the stairs."

Jim had spared a glance over the handrail. Indeed, he could see the light glinting off Simon's glasses and hear his booming voice giving orders to a phalanx of patrol cops behind him.

"Did you get the bastard?" Blair and Simon had called out almost simultaneously. Jim had nodded, then realizing that only he could see either of them from that far, had called out his affirmation. Within moments, Simon and his troops were upon him, and in the mass chaos Jim had almost missed Blair's muttered comments.

"You should have just let the son of a bitch fall, Jim."

*

By the time Jim had gotten Dryson down the stairs and into the back of a patrol car, Blair had rounded up a pair of paramedics and turned them loose on his partner.

"Just let them check you out, Jim," he had ordered at Jim's token protest. "You took a pretty long fall down those concrete steps."

The words had sounded right, but when Jim glanced at his face, his Blair was still gone, replaced by this ice-cold stranger. And when the paramedics had pronounced him sound, he'd found Blair standing diffidently by the truck, watching from a distance.

"Do you think that you could drive the van back to the garage, and catch a ride home from Simon later?" he'd asked in a small voice. "I've got to enter some grades at Rainier, and if I take the truck and go right from here, I might get them in on time."

"Sure, Chief," he'd answered, wondering at the swift change in Blair's demeanor. Perhaps Dryson's arrest had finally allowed something to penetrate his hard shell. "I can catch a ride with Simon. Can you come in later to do up your statement?"

"You mean do up your report, don't you?" Blair had asked with something resembling a quick grin, and for a moment, Jim had felt relief. "Yeah, I can come in this afternoon, if that's okay. I want to catch a few hours of sleep, first."

It hadn't been until Jim was parking the van back in the PD lot that he'd realized that it was the dawning of Sunday morning.

In the end, he'd done the report himself. He'd wanted to wait until Dryson was processed, and he'd had to wait for Simon, after all. Once he'd figured out that posting grades had been a ruse, he hadn't expected to see Sandburg return to the PD at all that day. Simon, reluctantly, had agreed.

"The kid's been running himself ragged. Give him the day off, but tell him to get his butt in here first thing tomorrow morning and type up his statement. I don't want anything going wrong with this bust. Damn lawyers," he'd growled, but Jim could see a reflection of his own worry in Simon's eyes.

They hadn't talked about it on the ride home, Jim half-dozing, half-zoning on the acrid smell of Simon's omnipresent cigar, but Simon had offered to accompany upstairs when he pulled up in front of the loft.

"Gee, Simon, I must look like the walking dead," he'd said, flashing a weary grin, but he'd clasped Simon's hand briefly in thanks.

"I'll be okay," he'd said, and moved to lever himself out of the plush seat of Simon's car. He looked around quickly, and was relieved to see the truck parked neatly in its customary spot. He had felt every bump and scrape as he'd moved and, for the second time that day, nearly missed a set of muffled comments.

"You'll be okay, sure. But what about the kid?" Simon had muttered through his clenched cigar.

"Sandburg'll be fine, too," he'd answered, drawing a startled look from Simon. "He just needs to, you know..."

"Process everything?" Simon had replied. Jim had nodded, with another fleeting grin. "All right, then. But call if you need anything. I'll be on my cell. I want to stop by the hospital and give Brown the good news."

So it had seemed that things were looking up, at least until he'd gotten to the elevator. Oh, well.

Every step was sending a painful reminder to him that he was no longer a young man, and that middle-aged men should not take flying tumbles down concrete stairways. For a brief, giddy moment, he imagined the stairs of 852 Prospect taking their revenge on him, driving home their displeasure with the mistreatment of a brother stairwell. That was it. He needed to go to sleep right now.

He was rounding the second landing, grimly keeping a mental count of each footfall in his head, when he felt the telltale shudder of a sensory spike. His sight, then his hearing and smell, all dialed up and then abruptly cut out. He took a deep breath, bent over on the landing, and tried to center himself like Sandburg had taught him. He felt his control return, and took another deep breath, then shuddered again as he realized what had caused the spike. Fire. And coming from the direction of their apartment.

He took the last flight of steps at a dead run, aches and pains forgotten. As he drew closer to the door of their apartment, he scanned the hall for any signs of smoke but found nothing, outside of the distinct smell of burning sage. He sneezed singly, then in a series, and listened for a second heartbeat. Of all days for Naomi to come to stay, he thought darkly, then realized in surprise that he only heard one slightly elevated and very familiar rhythm.

He still smelled smoke now, although more muted, and mixed with other scents he couldn't quite place. He placed his hand on the door, which felt cool, even cold, to his sentinel touch, and then swiftly turned the knob.

*

The apartment was not on fire, although Jim gave himself a pass for having thought so. Every flat surface in the loft seemed to be covered with candles. There was a circle of the thick pillar candles Blair used for meditation on the coffee table, blazing brightly, and behind them, huddled on the couch in Jim's thick terry robe and under a woolen throw - red-faced and swollen-eyed, still damp from a shower - was Blair.

Jim looked around the apartment in amazement. Every bit of the loft not covered with candles sparkled, scrubbed clean. He shivered, realizing that all the balcony doors were wide open, letting in the cold winter breeze.

"Hey, Chief," he said softly, not sure what to make of the bizarre scene in front of him. "Your hair's going to freeze if you keep those doors open much longer."

Blair graced him with a watery grin.

"I know, man, but the sage - I was afraid that it would make you sneeze." Jim put his keys down carefully in the basket, but otherwise stayed where he was.

"Yeah," he answered softly. "I thought we'd gotten another surprise visit from your mom."

"No, just me," Blair said in a quiet voice, but Jim could hear it shaking almost sub-vocally.

Okay, that was enough of that. He moved swiftly past the couch and over to the windows, shutting out the cold air as he drew them closed. Without thinking, he moved back to the kitchen, still in his jacket, and began to pull things out for tea.

"Chief, if you don't mind my asking," he said, his back still towards Blair, who was sniffling suspiciously, "What's the deal here? You decided to leave the bust so you could come home and clean the loft before freezing to death?"

He heard Blair's snort even over the thrum of water filling the kettle.

"The freezing to death was an accident. The rest of it, it's just, you know, cleansing."

Jim turned back towards him, but wasn't really looking at him, too busy filling the tea ball with Blair's "emergency" high-end Lapsang Souchong. It had been a gift to Sandburg from a grateful student, and Blair had decided it was just too expensive to pull out for any old all-nighter. It was a measure of how worried Jim was that he found his only response to Sandburg's complex tea system was, for once, relief. At least it gave him something else to think about for a moment or two.

"Cleansing?" he asked, in what he hoped was an encouraging voice.

"Yeah, cleansing. It's just, you know - Candlemas, a new start. I felt like we could both use the good vibes."

"Candlemas?"

Jim had a vague recollection of a childhood church service, but that didn't seem to fit the whole cleaning-frenzied, sage-burning, brokenhearted Sandburg perched miserably in his sights. Of course, the whole candle thing _did_ seem to fit right in.

"Candlemas," Blair repeated, then hitched himself up on the couch and tucked the blanket more tightly around him. Jim could almost see the moment his brain switched back on. "Also known as Imbolc. St. Brighid's Feast?" he asked, turning it into a question, and Jim shook his head, listening to the bubbles in the kettle behind him begin to simmer and pop.

"It's the same day as Groundhog Day?" tried Blair again, and this time Jim nodded, confused. It was Groundhog Day, so Blair had decided to clean the loft and light candles. Lots of candles. Maybe he was hoping the groundhog would come here to see his shadow.

He heard Blair's sigh, and tried to look interested rather than confused. There was obviously something here he'd missed. Blair had left - had fled, really - the scene of the takedown of the man he'd been hunting with single-minded obsession, had lied _to Jim_ , to come home and burn sage while waiting for a groundhog. It didn't seem to make sense, but hey - he wasn't the anthropologist, after all.

"Candlemas is the midway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It's a time of cleansing, of renewal. It celebrates the return of warmth, of fire," said Blair, then jumped as the kettle whined.

"Groundhog Day's a whole different thing," he added, answering Jim's unspoken question.

Jim turned his attention back to the tea, and he could almost feel his roommate relax as his took his eyes from him.

"So you left the bust to come back and celebrate Candlemas? Not to freeze to death?" He tried for a lighthearted tone, but failed utterly.

"No, Jim," he answered, miserably, "I left the bust because I wanted to kill Dryson. And not just kill him. Make him suffer, make him feel the pain, the agony, the - God! I just, I never felt like that before. I didn't know what to do. It was like there was a stranger living in my head, thinking my thoughts, passing the time, waiting for a chance at this guy. I mean - I've just never been so angry before, you know? It scared me. I just, I couldn't handle it."

Jim shoved the kettle onto the back burner as Blair started talking, and reached the couch by the end of his outburst. Without a thought, he reached out for Blair, gathering the solid weight of him up into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he said, murmuring into his damp hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize."

Blair resisted his embrace at first, trying to pull away, still huddled in on himself.

"It's just that ever since - since the day Mary was killed, I've felt so cold, like there was no me inside, just this cold, cold anger. That's why I didn't follow you down the stairs today. I was afraid that if I got too close to him, I'd kill him or - or hurt him, at least. I didn't know what to do. I've never felt that before. I kind of, well - I freaked. I just knew I needed to get away from him," he said, his voice cracking on the last words.

Jim pulled him closer, still murmuring soft words of comfort.

"It's okay, Blair, it's all right. You didn't hurt him. No one hurt him. It's okay to be angry. He deserves it. He deserves it and more. He did a horrible thing to people you cared about. You didn't lose yourself, you're still here, stinky sage and all."

He felt Blair's hiccup of laughter through his renewed sobs, and then felt Blair's arms tighten about him as he finally melted into the embrace. He felt the shudders running up and down the smaller body, and held on, willing his own warmth, his own strength into his friend as Blair relaxed into his grief for the first time.

"It's okay, Blair, it's all going to be okay," he whispered, when he felt the first torrent of grief subside. He reached over to the coffee table for the tissues, carefully avoiding the guttering ring of candles.

"I guess the candles where kind of overkill, hunh?" Blair sniffed as he accepted a tissue from Jim with a wry smile.

Jim looked around at the clean loft, which was sparkling under the candles' soft glow. He could smell the faint remains of sage and of candle smoke and, under them, the more-familiar odors of home. His home. Their home. 

This had merely been a place for him to park some extra cash in a good investment, before Blair. Before the smell of home had included algae shakes and fresh-baked bread and "emergency" high-end tea. The last few days had shown him, if nothing else, how much he looked to Blair to add that fire, that warmth, of home into his life. Without it, they were just two considerate roommates, and no number of egg breakfasts and turned-down beds would change it.

"Nah," he answered, drawing Blair into his embrace once more, "In fact, I'm thinking we might even need more. To celebrate the return of warmth? For you, my cold-blooded friend, we might need enough candles to light up the whole block."

**Author's Note:**

> For Delilah who, in addition to being wonderfully encouraging, also knows the names of some "non-bergamot-y" teas.


End file.
